It’s a sad day when an Auror is reduced to spying on the Muggle neighbors for lack of anything better to do he thought, sitting in a straight backed wooden kitchen chair and watching the woman who lived next door carry trash to her bins. Something has got to change before I go madder than they already think I am.

Mad-Eye Moody had a plan for getting through the day. He got up every morning in the pre-dawn watch, just to check the perimeter, and if all seemed clear he made himself a cup of tea. (All always seemed clear, but he kept the proviso in the plan just to be prepared) The Daily Prophet owl would arrive, he would pay for the paper, and then spend somewhere between fifteen and forty-five minutes reading, cursing and fuming. He sometimes wrote a Howler or two, which he destroyed rather than sent, and by then, needing some sustenance, was ready to get himself some eggs and toast and the occasional sausage or bit of bacon.

On a very good day, this brought him to about eight am.

The plan was that from nine am to eleven he would work on his memoirs; the hour between eight and nine, then, was awkward. This day was not a good day, and the hour between eight and nine was actually the hour between six thirty and. It was, however, a lucky day, for he had a new neighbor, and she was out in the garden bringing trash to her bin.

I’ll just wait until she’s done and get that lot over here, where I can properly examine it. She seems to be harmless, but those are the worst kind.

He knew, even as he thought it, that suspecting this woman was grasping at straws. There was absolutely nothing to be learned about her from the Foe-glass, the extra-powerful Sneakoscope, or the view of her home he could get through his magical eye that indicated she was anything but what she seemed to be: a young woman who taught in a school not all that far away. The school was in a dodgy part of town; he knew this from the lady at the grocery store where he sometimes bought a Muggle paper – his desperation was increasing lately, and any news, no matter how silly or irrelevant, was better than having none at all to think about – and his new neighbor had taught there before. She was merely upgrading her premises - she had been living closer in towards the school, not far enough, perhaps, from the neighborhood she taught in. She was, according to the grocery lady, “Not young,� but he took that with a grain of salt, as the woman had seemed to be looking for a compliment, and been a bit miffed when he hadn’t said anything like “Unlike yourself, miss,� or “Not that you would know about not being young, eh?�

His new neighbor had moved in yesterday. The house was let furnished; she had made two trips with her microscopic Muggle auto full of boxes, one in the morning, the other, later in the afternoon, and had then ceremoniously unrolled a welcome mat in front of her door. She was done transporting her worldly goods then. He was not surprised. She was supposed to be “foreign,� which probably meant she did not have much accumulated here, unless she was settling permanently. The rubbish might tell.

He had followed her progress for an hour now. She had gotten up and showered, which he had politely ignored. Once dressed, she had come downstairs and put oatmeal in a bowl, put the bowl in a box and pushed a panel. Nothing had happened, she had cursed, found a plug, inserted it in the hole in the wall, and pushed the panel again. A light came on in the box. He’d made a mental note to tell Arthur Weasley about this.

Breakfast (she ate neatly, washed her one dish in the sink, but left it there because, it seemed, she did not have a dish drainer) then being over, she had gone out into the garden, binned her trash, and drawn in a deep breath, eyes closed. She did this again, and again. Should I get out my quill and note all this down? he wondered, Arthur will be fascinated when he comes to dinner. After three deep breaths, she had gone inside and begun unpacking books onto the built-in shelves in the circular lounge, shivering a bit. Skinny thing, she could do with a bit of a jumper. Nothing there to keep her warm. Two hours later, done with the books which were now quite carefully arranged, by what system he couldn’t tell, she went upstairs for her purse, came back down to enter her car, and drove off.

Well, no one is going to want to read the book when I’m done writing it. he told himself, truthfully if also philosophically, I can get the trash now.

**** Three weeks later, Alastor Moody knew a great deal about Elizabeth Stewart, including that she was entirely unsuspicious. She was, however, curious, and he found her looking at his home, converted some hundreds of years ago from a fifteenth century tithe barn and the nearest residence to hers, when she could not have known he was looking. He did not think she had seen him at all.

The problem was that he was starting to wonder if that was a good thing. The problem was that he ought not to have started looking in her bins. The problem was that his very quiet and quite unobjectionable neighbor was dangerously lonely, and now that he knew this, it bothered him.

Nice girl, that, he sat thinking one morning, a pile of her draft letters home in front of him. Doesn’t want to worry her mum. Starts out telling her the whole truth and keeps cleaning it up till she’s telling nothing but the truth.

The letter in question, which he had been retrieving over a period of four days, started with the heinous details of life in the school staff room, and in front of a class of students who clearly would have benefited from a term or two at Durmstrang. “The Assistant Headmistress still hates me, Mommy, and has been talking about me behind my back. I know because when I walk into the staff room, it falls quiet, and she looks pleased. She called me in to her office yesterday to see a pile of papers I’d graded, and demanded to know why I had missed marking some of the grammar errors,� was one pathetic piece of information. “Lydia Crasswhythe asked in that tone again about where I bought my skirt. I’ve learned to lie to her, or at least not to tell her much. ‘London, Lydia,’ I said.

‘Really, which shop?’ She wanted to know. ‘Some London shops are better than others, you know. You really ought to find someone to help you with that,’ she went on. As if I don’t know better than to take her advice – she’d send me someplace stupid that only sold disgusting stuff and then laugh at me when I wore it. Everyone hates me, Mommy, and I cry every night.�

Obviously she had never intended to send it that way. The final draft read:

“The Assistant Headmistress is taking a real interest in my professional development, and one of the girls asked me where I got my skirt, so things seem to be warming up.�

Warming for battle, alright, and she’s telling the truth. Wonder if her mum knows how much she’s leaving out? Would he have known how little of it she told if he had only seen the final version?

Then there were the accounts of her classes.

“The boys in period three were playing some ball game with a crumbled up piece of paper again yesterday, and when I looked around Bobby Buffleston was hanging, and I do mean hanging from the light fixture, which I was afraid was going to come right out of the ceiling, and I was ready to jump out the window myself. When I asked him to come down he burst into a tirade of God alone knows what sort of gutter slang, of which I understood not one word, but understood well enough to know it was meant to destroy me.� This had become “Bobby in period three has great athletic ability and the kids all have a wonderful sense of spoken language, but you know that; I’ve mentioned it before.�

Well, she’s been there over a year. Probably every day’s a bit like that,he thought somewhat grimly.

There were other bits as well – scraps on which she had done little sketches. One was the corner of his house, with a lot of converging lines behind it. Some were of plants he recognized from the yard. They were not magical plants, most of them, and he did not know their names. Bleeding heart and forget-me-nots were different: those he knew, and heart’s ease, and roses, of course.

She drew the sketches as if each flower were a face, and she were making its portrait. None of them were perfectly done, and some of the papers were stained with tears (he had checked with his wand) A few had been ripped to bits. He could not see any difference in the quality between them They’re all very nice. You can tell what they are. Can’t imagine why they’d make her cry, or why she’d ruin them.

He glanced over at her house again. Yes, she was in the kitchen, washing her dishes, and still drying them in the sink – didn’t have anything to drain them on yet. Well, there was no law against talking to Muggles, was there? And transfiguring a few old tins into a dish drainer oughtn’t to be a problem – it wasn’t as if he was enchanting a dish drainer, was it?

It was only as he stood with his wand up over the tins that he thought.

Careless old man! How in Merlin’s name are you supposed to know she needs one? Shaking, Alastor Moody, who had faced Grindelwald’s followers, who had faced Muggle Nazis, who had faced Death Eaters, sank into a chair, and put his face into his hands.

***

She was carrying out the fifth bag of trash that day. I can’t believe I paid to have all this shipped across the ocean. The only thing more idiotic would be paying to ship it back. Did she want to throw it out? What did it matter, really? It seemed she’d be childless. If some stranger was going to have to throw it out when she died, it might as well be her throwing it out now.

Why had she ever started a diary, thought she’d want to know, at some later date, how she had coped with the crisis of ‘82, or ‘85, or the three of ‘87, or the magnificent flop of ‘91? She did not want to remember now, and she hoped she never would. This trip, at least, seemed the last for the morning. The fifteen years of receipts, old appointment books, personal correspondence with people who didn’t speak to her any more, notes from her many graduate school classes, drafts of scholarly articles which had not fit in with current trends were gone – this was the very last of it. I’m not going to bother shredding all this. No one cares what I’ve got here.

This time, when she went into her backyard to drag the rubbish sack over towards the bins, she was not entirely alone. The old man who she’d heard lived next door, but had never seen, was out staring at his rosebushes.

She stuffed the rubbish sack in the dented old bin and turned. “Hello,� she called out, “are you my neighbor?� Obviously he was, but how else could she open a conversation? “The people on the other side of your house told me you’re crazy, is it true?� is no way to start being neighborly, even if they did. I have to say something.

The man looked up from his rosebushes, which were heavy with fragrant blooms. “Hello yourself! Moody!� he said expectantly, holding out his gnarled, arthritic hand.

She walked the dozen steps to the hedge between their properties, taking his hand in hers and shaking it firmly. “Stewart,� she replied. “Pleasure to meet you.�

It was, too. The other neighbor – she had started to call the woman that in her mind – was a sour, unpleasant creature who disapproved, it seemed, of everyone and everything except her own son. Elizabeth was quite certain he was insufferable. This man seemed very different. He looked at her, one eye focusing, the other obviously not quite right – the eye was mostly closed and seemed to be watering a little, and he smiled at her, a very courtly smile. “Likewise. How do you like the area?� he asked in that distinctive, gravelly voice.

“I like it. Very quiet, and nice old houses – they have some personality. I was renting over where they all look alike and it was driving me insane. The agent told me this was an Oast house, years ago. I had to go look up what that was. I much prefer this house to those.�

“Never liked those new houses myself. Mine used to be a tithe barn, six hundred years ago or so ago.� He paused for a moment, then went on, “well, when they had tithes.�

“Really? Have you lived here long?� Was that polite? I’m never sure what people think is polite. Was I prying? Will he think I was prying? Maybe I was, too, I’m…

“Well, not all those six hundred years.� He had a growly, deep chuckle that matched his speaking voice very nicely. “My family has been here a very long time, though. I grew up in this house. When I was a little boy, I used to fly…paper airplanes onto the roof of yours from my bedroom window.� He seemed, all of a sudden, to be very interested in the beetles on his roses. He picked one off, squished it efficiently between his fingers, and dropped the remains. He did the same with another, and another. Then, he looked up and caught her watching him.

All of a sudden he flushed. He was wiping his fingers on his trousers, and then seemed to think that maybe he should not have wiped them on his trousers, because he was moving them oddly, as if he was trying to convince someone that he hadn’t just been squashing fat, juicy beetles with them and gotten the beetle blood all over.

“I have lemonade in the house. I made if from lemons this morning. Would you like some?� Where had her voice come from? Of course he wouldn’t want her lemonade. She was the teacher whose students wouldn’t eat the cake she baked and brought in, wasn’t she, the one the other teachers did not want to sit with in the lunch room. Still, it really was very nice lemonade, and…

“I’d love some. And I can go over to the hose pipe and wash my hands off while you’re inside politely pretending you didn’t see that, can’t I?� he asked ruefully.

“See what?� she asked, smiling, and turned around to go for her tray, and her glasses, and her hand-squeezed lemonade.

***

“You need to get some poison for them. I’m not quite sure what they call it – you go in, and they have it in little sticks you push into the soil by the roots, or a sort of gravel you pour on near the base. You haven’t got a cat, have you? Because I don’t think it’s all that good for cats. It really keeps some of the other pests off, though. The thing is, then you can’t use the petals in po– in recipes, and so forth. No, you take the cutters, and you get them right here. Yes, just exactly like that. You’re doing very well. Those bushes will be lovely in a bit.� His large, patient hands demonstrated with his secateurs, and she followed, as best she could, with hers. Her hands were not quite as strong and the stems were not slicing as neatly as his. Still, there was a little pile of the deadheaded blooms on her walk.

She had gotten into the habit of looking for him on Sunday afternoons sometimes. To be honest, on every Sunday afternoon, but he was not always out in his yard. Last week it had rained, and the week before it had been too hot to even think of leaving the air conditioning, so that it had been three weeks since she had last seen him, and August was halfway over.

“Are your fish alright with this weather?� she asked by way of conversation. She knew he had fish, because she could see them glinting in the pond from her bedroom window. He had never invited her into his yard; in fact, this was only the second time he had come over into hers – there had turned out to be a little gate in the overgrown hedge. Of course he had remembered where it was, and she had come home from the library one day to find the hedge neatly trimmed back on his side, but not on hers, and a note stuck on it. Did she want him to trim it on her side, so they could pass through? She had scrawled “Of course!� underneath with the pencil she had stuck behind her ear, and the next morning, it had been done.

It was not difficult to imagine him going out in the moonlight and snipping patiently away at the hedge using the large, sharp clippers with which she had seen him trimming other bushes. A lot of older people didn’t sleep very well, and she had noticed he limped a bit. Probably there were nights when it hurt too much to sleep. She could imagine him going out there and looking at the fish then, although she’d never seen him do it.

“Yes, yes, they are. They’re from the Indian Ocean, actually, like the hot quite well.� He seemed uncomfortable for a moment, and then said, “I have to put salt in the pool for them. Had to rather, it doesn’t evaporate with the water, so I only had to do it once. “

“Really? I didn’t even know you could do that? I’m terrible with fish, though. The tanks get all green, and I never buy very nice looking fish to begin with, so they aren’t that much fun to look at, and then I feel terribly guilty because of course it isn’t their faults they don’t have the big, fancy tails, and it isn’t like they’re any worse at being fish, they’re just as fishy as the fancier fish, just not as fancy.�

He was silent, and she looked up. She was embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have said that. I mean, the poor fish…� Would he think she was that shallow about people? He was looking at her with great interest. Finally he spoke.

“But the tails waving are pretty. They do look quite different than the others – ribbony, and graceful, instead of darting and swift. I think they’d suit you better. Tell me, do you dance?�

She glanced at him. He was pretending to look at the faded rose in his hand, but she could feel his eye on her. He was probably just looking away when she turned her face up. She shifted her mouth a bit to the side and frowned.

“Well, I like to dance, and I did take dance lessons in school, but you know, there isn’t really any call for me to be dancing like that unless I get into some theatre group, or something, and I don’t have the time. I’ve got a lot of research I’m doing. And I love to ballroom dance – I used to swing dance when I was younger, but there hasn’t been anyone for me to dance with for – many years now.�

He tilted his head a bit to one side and considered her with interest. “Surely you’re not old enough for Jitterbugging?� he asked.

“Well, my parents taught me how to Lindy for the fifties revival in the seventies, so I suppose no, but yes. Did you…�

Before she could get flustered over having asked a lame man if he had liked dancing, he answered, thoughtfully.

“Well, there were times when we all did. I haven’t in years though, missing part of my leg.�

He said it expectantly, as if waiting to see what she would say. She considered carefully, and looked him straight in the eye when she answered. “You’re more graceful than darting and swift. I can’t see you in ribbons though. The imagination fails.�

She said it very seriously, except for her laughing eyes, and stood back, waiting to see how he would take it. Her reward was vast, when it came. He laughed, a deep, flowing laugh, and shook his head. Smiling, he turned back to the bush.

“Pretty color. Like that cotton wool you were playing with when I came out.� He was carefully examining the bush for aphids and might not have caught her smile.

“Not cotton wool, Mr. Moody. Actual wool. I dyed it myself with the color from drink mix packets. I hadn’t realized I matched the rose, but you’re right, they’re quite alike.�

She had halted in her snipping, a rose in her left hand and the clippers in her right. “I’m waiting for you to ask me what I was dyeing wool for,� she confided in a conspiratorial low voice.

“I was rather hoping you’d tell without my asking,� he replied in the same low tone. “Thought I might be able to fool you into thinking I knew more than I did.� He grinned at her.

“Ah, yes, men! Well, I spin it. I’ve got a drop spindle, and I take that fluffy stuff and spin it into yarn. Like Rumplestitskin, you know, only wool, not straw. And it stays wool, doesn’t turn into gold.� She looked up and smiled very broadly at him from under the brim of her large straw hat, “It’s like magic, you know. You start with fluff and end up with string – yarn, I mean.�

“Really? Like magic?� He smiled at her with an odd expression, and she smiled even more broadly.

“Well, like I’d imagine magic. There is no such thing, of course, but when I’m spinning, it seems magical. It seems – oh – like just anything could happen. Having the wool a pretty color only makes it even better. It’s very convenient, the thorns on the bushes do help keep it from blowing away as it dries.�

He nodded, and then, looking at the sky, in which, if he looked carefully, he might see a wisp of white, he reacted as if it were full dark clouds. “Come on. Let’s get this one done. Didn’t you say you’d be leaving for a visit home on Tuesday?�

She had. She’d asked him to take in her mail, and he hadn’t answered directly. “Yes, and I’ll be gone till the thirtieth.�

“I’ll still be here when you’re back then. I’ve got a teaching job myself, up North. More a training academy type of position. It relates to my former line of work. I can take in the post for you though; I don’t leave until the first.�

“Oh! Does your mail need taking in while you’re gone?� she countered immediately.

“No, no I don’t think I’ll be getting much. If you could just clear away whatever sort of bits of rubbish they come and stick in my front gate. That other one is rather particular…and I ought to be back from time to time, to check on things.� He snipped off another dead bloom, and then yet another.

“I can do that.�

She could do that, and if it was just like her life that after more than a year in a country she should finally make a friend, only to have him miraculously find a job in another town almost immediately thereafter, well, at least it was just her luck, and pretty much what she would have expected.

Maybe, she was thinking as she fell asleep that night, I can check for the town junkyard. They might have a half starved dog I could make friends with. If she was sad, very sad, it was a sadness she was used to, and she did not cry much before she fell asleep.

***

There was a commotion of some sort going on out there by Mr. Moody’s house. There were police cars in front, and Mrs. Pain-in-the-Butt out there gesticulating.

It had started early. She was up, watching from her window, meaning to go downstairs and offer him a cup of tea over the hedge to wish him well in his new job. It was no joke to take up teaching; she hoped they wouldn’t make mincemeat of him, although she rather thought they wouldn’t. Whatever his former line of work was, he didn’t talk about it, and since as far as she knew organized crime did not have formal training academies she tended to think he had worked for the government or the military in the sort of position you gloss over at cocktail parties. A man like that ought to have no problem with a group of at young adults – or older adults, for that matter. How many times have I wished I had a few weeks at the State Police Academy when I’m staring down a character in my classroom? No, he ought to be alright.

It did seem odd that such a solitary person – she’d never seen anyone come visit him in the past few months, although, of course, she did not keep an actual watch on his house – that such solitary individual would have anyone come to see him off. Those two didn’t look very friendly, either. They looked menacing, actually, and she was not very happy about that. And there they were – he’d been out by the pool, saying goodbye to his fish, she supposed, and…

There were more people arriving – a red-headed man was arguing with the police. Mr. Moody was out of the house again- he’d gone into the kitchen half an hour earlier. She hoped he’d look up as he went, but he didn’t. Well, he was off on a new adventure, and why would he think she’d be pathetic enough to be watching his departure out the window.

Because all he’s done is help you a bit with your rosebushes. He can’t possibly know he’s the closest thing to a friend you’ve got on an entire continent. A real friend, not just someone who was willing to sit with her at the cafeteria table, like that little Miss Walters had been willing to at orientation. Well, that wouldn’t last long. Miss Walters would realize she was the odd man out on staff and retreat, unless Miss Walters was even odder man out than she, which, who knew, she might be.

Taking out her garbage half an hour later that morning, she realized the fish were jumping and splashing, making quite a bit of noise. She let herself through the gate and made her way over to the pond.

“What ugly pond fish,� she actually said aloud. “There’s no accounting for taste. They’re probably really rare and worth a thousand pounds each. You’d think they knew he was gone though. I hope they catch enough flies and things for themselves; I have no idea what you feed them.�

The fish were darting around, very agitated, and flipping out of the water in front of her.

“I know he’s gone,� she said, “But he’s just gotten a nice job. He probably needs it to feed you. How about I come visit you every day? Well, most days. I wouldn’t want you to be upset if I miss one.’ She stood next to the pond, talking, almost crooning, in a calm voice, but they were still agitated when she finally had to turn and, sighing, make her own way to work.

**

He was near the house, only near it: he couldn’t pop right into his own living room, didn’t feel right about it. The whole place would need a thorough check. I don’t need to ask Amos and Arthur. I look ridiculous enough as it is.

Poppy had tried to discourage him from Apparating before he left Hogwarts. Should have listened to her. It was a very hard Apparition. He’d felt stretched and unstable. Might have been the closest I’ve ever come to Splinching myself. Not that there’s all that much left of me to Splinch. Damned leg is sore without the callous, and my eye keeps sticking…

There was an alleyway down the block he’d used as an Apparition point before. He should have come in closer – maybe his shed, or the yard next door. He should have waited until morning, he should have…

Stop it, you fool! You’ll drive yourself mad for real, and then what use will you be to the Order?

Miss Stewart’s gate was half a block closer than his own, just a few steps away, and he could turn in there, could sleep in her garage: she’d never know, wouldn’t mind if she did know. I can face the wreck tomorrow.

"Alohamora!" The gate opened. She had something leggy and sparse growing up through the bricks in her walk. Probably deliberate. She’s a careful gardener. The roses are coming along nicely. She did use that walk, after all. Checked her mail every day. Random thoughts of a young woman in her garden ran through his head. He could let himself host random thoughts. But they were scattering like dropped marbles, and he practically stooped to pick them up before he simply stopped and collected himself.

She might be gone, someone else here. She’d had a year’s lease. Was it up?

The light came on, bright, piercing, and a muffled, “Oh my God!� Small hands were reaching out and taking hold.

“Come in, come it. I’ll get you some tea.�

Was she pulling him? Half carrying him? Poppy was right, he should have waited, he …

“Is your puppy alright? I don’t know, I didn’t see one. I’ll go look.�

I must be muttering. He put up a hand, shook his head.

“No dog,� he managed to get out of his mouth. “No dog,� his breath failing him, the repetition fading off.

He heard clattering in the kitchen, far off, not far off. A buzz, a bell, running water, all out of order. He was shaking, shaking all over. Dear Merlin, I can’t DIE here, I can’t DIE in her parlor! What a mess that would be for her. The possibility suddenly seemed very real, however, and he could not shake the feeling that it would be unneighborly and ill bred to let himself expire in her chair. He was struggling to rise, but she came back in, tea tray in her hands, a brisk manner to her speech.

“Mr. Moody, I‘m going to take your pulse and temperature, if you don’t mind, before I give you some tea. If that is all right with you,� she said, but he had the impression that it being all right or not all right with him was far to one side or the other of her point. She stuck something in his mouth, picked his wrist up gently and turned it up so, was looking at her wristwatch and mumbling. She had an old book open on the tea tray.

“Well, if the Girl Scouts knew what they were talking about in World War One I suppose you’re in the realm of the living. Here, have some tea. Are you on any medication? Hmmm. Just in case, I had better leave out the whiskey.�

Firewhisky? Where would she get that? No, you idiot, they have their own. Fireless. Muggles have Fireless Whiskey

“Whiskey, okay.�

It ought to be okay. It ought to just do – less. Less, not more. Muggles, their things - -less, not more.

“Of course I am more or less meddling. A neighbor shows up on my doorstep at four A.M. a total wreck, what else would I do but meddle – if you can even call it that under the circumstances. Here, Mr. Moody, I’ve put sugar and lemon in the tea with the whiskey. Let me help you.�

Let me help you. Not “Can I help you,� not “Do you need any help,� not even “Are you really certain you should,� just “let me.�

She held the cup to his lips, inexpertly, but still, it was right there, just hot enough, not too hot. One sip. Another. Two, then, his hands up, he was finishing it off. It rolled down his throat, warm, and sweet, and healing in a way Poppy’s potions had not been.

He could focus on her now. She was wearing Muggle denim pants and a big loose shirt with no place for buttons or buttonholes. It went on like a jumper. What did they call them again? Something-shirts. Oh, he was daft.

Her brow was furrowed, her glasses riding a little down on the bridge of her nose. She was trying to smile, though.

“Are you better? Is your trunk out in the street? Do we need to get it?�

His trunk was probably sitting in his fireplace right now. Not that he was so sure he ever wanted to see it again. “Delivered,� he managed to spit out.

“I see, alright then, here, take another cup of tea. I’ve got bread. Shall I make you a sandwich?�

“Toast,� he said, quietly. “Here.�

She said nothing, just went into the kitchen. Well, he thought, he could still cast a burning spell, and there, he had. Without moving from his seat, he had pointed his wand at the neat pile of logs by the grate. Wingardium Leviosa! With another muttered word or two they had arranged themselves in the fireplace. Then he’d whispered again. It was burning. It was not blazing, exactly, but it had caught, and when she returned this time, on the tray was a knife, an unsliced loaf of bread, a labelless jar of jam, some butter and a toaster. She glanced at the fire in surprise.

“Well, they must have really taught you - something, way back when. Nice fire.�

“Long fork.�

She turned from gazing at the fire to look at him again. “A long fork? I’ve got a sort of long one, I think. It came with the house.�

She returned from the kitchen with a standard cooking fork, about two feet long from prong tip to handle’s end.

“It’ll do,� he whispered, holding out his hand, and she wordlessly handed it to him. When he reached again, she sliced him off a thick piece of bread. He expertly, despite his shaking hands, fitted the bread onto the tines.

“Like that.�

“I see,� she said, admiringly. “I’ve roasted marshmallows and hot dogs, but never toast. I think I know the principle. Wait.�

She went back into the kitchen, and when she returned there was another similar fork in her hands, although it was older, and bent. She handed it to him as well, and he noticed how she contrived, between the curlicue openings in the edge of the fire screen and he knew not what to place each fork in turn close to the fire.

“I know I haven’t got the patience to hold it, but that will do.�

***

He woke with a crick in his neck. Well, that was nothing new. He’d woken up with a crick in his neck every time he’d woken up since Barty Crouch had stuck that wand in his back…

But there was light.

There was a golden sunlight very much like the sunlight on the East side of his kitchen, and there was a crackling fire, and he smelled toast, and…

“Good morning!�

A woman’s voice, not the imposter’s, a young woman’s voice. He could almost place it.

“Would you like an egg? I’ll probably ruin it, but it’ll still be good for you.�

Yes, that Stewart girl.

“Eh?’

A low chuckle, “Not a morning person? Me either, really. I’ve got to go give in my grades. They will insist on having them. And then I am taking three sick days, let them dock me if they don’t like it, and summer break will officially start! But I’ve got to eat breakfast first, so – boiled or fried?�

Her hair was worked up onto the back of her head, and she had on a dark skirt and jacket with a light sweatery blouse thing. He’d never seen her dressed for work, not up close.

“Do they dare give you a hard time, when you’re dressed like that?�

“Not as hard as it looks like they gave you. Boiled or fried, Mr. Moody?�

He looked at her piercingly from under bushy, wild brows. “You’re not going to let it go, are you?� he asked, starting to stretch unobtrusively.

“Well, the toast didn’t kill you, did it?� she asked, tilting her head to one side.

Merlin’s beard, he’d eaten in her house! After everything that had happened to him, he’d eaten in a Muggle house. Well, a Muggle isn’t putting any potions in there, or cursing it, is she? he was surprised to find himself thinking. And she was right, he felt fine – better than he had any right to, in fact.

“All right. Hard boiled, please, and another piece of toast, if you’ve got it,� he said in a voice that did not properly express his bemusement.

“You probably know where the kitchen is, and the bathroom. I put out a hand towel and a fresh soap for you, and a toothbrush too. It’s new.�

She whisked off to the kitchen, and he unfolded himself from the chair he’d collapsed in.

She’d made it homey, almost. She had a blanket-thing – an afghan, he thought they called it -- and she had rearranged the furniture. The rug, now he looked at it, was hideous, and it would take more than a scouring charm to make that sofa worth sitting on. The last tenant had brought it in, he thought. She had a straggly philodendron – that had probably been left behind as well. The walls were clean. He recalled her washing them when she moved in, before he’d turned his eye away from the place when she was home, before he’d decided she was harmless and left her her privacy..

The bathroom was quite fresh. It smelled as if she’d just cleaned it, actually, the discolored chrome faucet shining with moisture, a trace of powdery cleaner around the bottom of the handle. There was a miniscule shower unit in the corner that hadn’t been there before. He could see that it had taken some ingenuity to hook the water up, and couldn’t fathom why she’d spent the money. He knew there was a tub upstairs: recalled when they’d put it in, as a matter of fact; right after Grindelwalds’s downfall.

He brushed his teeth and washed his face, but he also used a general Scourgify on his robes. Well, they weren’t his exactly. His had been – he’d worn them for ten months straight. He hoped they’d been burned. He’d had to borrow, and these were actually Minerva’s, who was close to him in height.

What was he doing in a Muggle’s home, in front of a Muggle, in his robes? She’d already seen them, no point transfiguring them now. He’d just have to Obliviate her.

He arrived in the kitchen quietly, but she heard him. “Your egg is just done. Your eggs, actually – I made you two of them.�

He could see from the messy plate on the table that she’d already eaten.

“I’ll be back after lunch – about three, by time I get here. You can stay if you’d like. Your house is bound to be a mess. We can go over there when I get back if you’d rather just nap – hell of a journey you had, I can see.

She said nothing about the robes. Could it be she hadn’t noticed? And then, “They make jokes at work about getting us academic robes to teach in, but it’s gallows humor. You’ll have to tell me sometime how you liked them. I’m doing grocery shopping on the way home. Should I pick up milk and bread and coffee and so forth?�

He nodded absently.

“Bye then.� She picked up a large bag by the door, and was off, and he was alone in her house: alone with all her things, her thoughts, the meager contents of her cupboards and closets, with her knitting left loosely on the sofa. He could see it all, sitting in the chair in the living room, with the whirling electric blue eye. With a casual curiosity, he searched the upstairs bath. Why had she put in the shower?

A few towels of an odd color maybe – remembering his mother’s long ago frugality – maybe purchased on sale. A toothbrush out, a few extra in the medicine cabinet, along with a few headache medications, razors, shaving cream, deodorant, toothpaste and a bottle of prescription medicine he couldn’t read. In the tub…

“Dear Wandering ….� In the tub were his Ramora!

They’d grown, too, there was barely room for them. She couldn’t have gotten them upstairs that size, and what had she been feeding them?

And why?

Not pretty fish. Not an ugly color, but monotonous, all businesslike body shape, and that funny expression around the eye.

The tub was clean, too, with some Muggle machinery, which might be pumping in air, or maybe the fish just liked the buzzing sound.

He sank further into the chair, in wonder, but also in exhaustion, and fell back to sleep.,

“No, I won’t take a cent! I’ve been cutting your roses for the table -- let’s call it even. Wouldn’t want you calling the police on me like Mrs. Albright did on you!�

The Muggle police at my house? Yes, Albus mentioned that, didn’t he?

“…and I told her, later that day, that it was probably kids putting fire crackers in the bins, and she’d be lucky if they didn’t do hers next, now that they’d seen how hysterical it made her. She’s been keeping them locked in the garage ever since. Waits till the truck is at the corner and then wheels them down to the curb on this little cart she’s got for them.�

She was smiling, her eyes crinkling at the corners. How odd, really – he was the one people always found paranoid, and here was this girl talking to him as if he was entirely normal, and, well, now that he thought of it, she wasn’t saying anything against Mrs. Albright, really. She was just saying what Mrs. Albright was doing. She thought it was an overreaction, but it was effective, wasn’t it?

Was it worth it, just over bins?

Was he, Mad-Eye Moody, questioning someone else’s caution?

He had to shake his head to get back to her point. She wasn’t taking any money for the food. He was in no condition to argue the point, although he felt he should have. Looking at her meager pantry, the half empty closets, she didn’t have the galleons to spare.

Not galleons, fool – ounces they call their money, or something like that.

Oh, but he was weary. How could lying in a trunk for ten months tire him so? He was sure he knew what Muggles called their money, if only he could remember.

She looked over, a bit uncertainly, and started in a hesitant voice, “I’ve got your fish. I was afraid they’d die from the cold. I asked at a pond place, and I tried to measure how deep your pond was, but I couldn’t, and they were talking about a heater and all I could think was that with my luck I’d electrocute them or cook them by accident, so I just put them in buckets and brought them upstairs. The thing is, they grew, and I’m not sure I can get them back down. I just can’t carry that much flopping fish in that much water. I did a trial run just with the water in the buckets and I just can’t…�

Another expense, and she wasn’t saying a word about it. “Don’t worry. I’ll get my godson, Arthur. He’ll help,� Moody assured her.

“Well, that’s a relief. I was starting to fear I’d have to ask Mrs. Albright for her son’s help, which would, of course, expose the fact that he doesn’t really exist.�

“Oh, but he does,� Moody said, ruefully. “Horrible young man. I know him well.�

They looked at each other and burst out laughing.

He hadn’t laughed in at least ten months, shouldn’t be laughing now, really, and yet…

“You’ll be glad to see the gardens, then. Your roses outshine hers by a million to one.�

**

She looked up at the clock - six AM.

The turkey was done (had been done since yesterday) and the pies as well. She had apple, pumpkin, pecan and chocolate pudding. Apple was her best -- the apples sliced thinly and evenly, placed carefully on the floor of the raw crust, sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon…a layer of red apple, a layer of green, a layer of red, covered with a crumb topping, rich with dark brown sugar and more cinnamon. The spice she got from a specialty supplier, it was not the variety any old fool could pick up at the grocers but stronger: hotter and more fragrant. Yes, the apple was her best, but the others were good too. She had managed to restrain herself, keep the number to four, but only because she couldn’t get real key lime juice and did not want to compromise.

The rest of the food was fine but did not compare to the apple pie. The green bean casserole was in the fridge – she didn’t care if it was a joke by now, she loved it. She loved yams, too, although she never put marshmallows on them, and you really couldn’t ruin frozen corn, or celery sticks, buttered carrots or lightly braised parsnips, all of which were done and merely waiting to be reheated – except for the corn. It was frozen and would just take a few minutes in the pan.

She did still have to boil the potatoes and mash them, but the table was set, and her vases were out, waiting for the flowers she was about to pick up at the little gathering of shops close by, the ones clustered around the Post Office.

She counted again. Eleanor, who cut Elizabeth’s hair in the shop with the old pink chairs; Marie from the bakery; Mrs. Dillingham and her widowed sister, Mrs. Westerview, who were collectively known as the Dillinghams (who knew why) and whom she knew from church; Adele, who led the congregation in song, and Adele’s very close personal friend, Marjorie made six, and it was seven when she counted herself.

Of course, it was two days late. I couldn’t do it Thursday. I was working, and anyway I couldn’t have gotten anyone else. Everyone from work turned me down, but half a dozen people, that’s not bad!

She’d almost asked Mr. Moody a dozen times. Almost. If it had been a British holiday I could, or if he was still just the man next door, but he’s been a bit odd since he slept in that chair in the living room. Quite careful to keep a little distance. He hadn’t seemed to be around as much this summer as last, either.

Probably afraid I’m offended, she had finally decided, or else embarrassed, all because he fell asleep in the armchair, or wanted a toasting fork, or some other silly old man thing. People of older generations had their ways, and he was always a touch formal.

Besides, what man would want to go to dinner with seven women, several of whom might get him in their cross hairs? He was a bachelor, and happy to be as far as she could see. No, it was all right that she hadn’t invited him.

She moved the crocheted dishcloth over the ancient linoleum surface of the counter. She would give him some leftovers later, in plastic containers she’d gotten specifically for that purpose, and she had a face-saving speech all rehearsed. �Mr. Moody,� I’ll say, “Please, would you help me? This food will rot – I can’t eat it fast enough, and I need the freezer for my Christmas baking.� Let’s hope he has no idea how much I can fit in that freezer.

It was a careful little fib, of course. She had no baking to do. She had her doubts how well it would survive a plane ride and customs if she sent it home, and there was a rule at the school about not exchanging gifts among the staff. She knew some of the teachers got around it, went for tea or a drink and gave each other little gifts, but she had no fears of being invited to participate. She might, if she felt in an especially festive mood, make some cookies for the postman and perhaps a plate for her neighbor himself. That was an afternoon’s work, at most, and she would not need the freezer for that. Maybe it wasn’t such a lie, though – she hated lying. Maybe if dinner went well, she’d be exchanging plates of cookies with one or two of today’s guests.

She threw on her coat – the one that was either retro and chic or old and moth-eaten, depending upon one’s perspective -- and picked up her purse. Off to the bakery for rolls and the corner shop for flowers. Her feet caught a little on the pavement outside her front gate as she almost skipped along.

Of all the holidays, she missed Thanksgiving most. The little chocolate turkeys wrapped in printed aluminum foil; the little glass of tomato juice she had never gotten at any other time of year; the cut glass tray of pickles and olives, gherkins, not just kosher dills; the bowl of walnuts with the nut cracker – nothing special just a jointed steel nutcracker - and having two flavors of ice cream and cake for dessert had represented holidays at her aunt’s house for so many years. The insane version of the Alleycat she would dance with her uncle after dinner, the people she got to see only at her aunt’s house – like Tish, and Andrew, and Tish’s friend Elana whose daughter Chloe had gotten to the age where she refused to come to dinner – were seasonal joys. These people she saw then were not close friends, but she liked seeing them once a year.

She would not even think about her cousins and how much she missed them, or her mother, or her father. She would not think at all of how it came about that a woman men used to send flowers to was living in a foreign country slowly turning into Miss Jean Brodie, Except that Mussolini is dead and I’ll have to settle for some ridiculous pop star who doesn’t even sing his own songs, or worse, as an object for my fixation. She resolutely turned her mind away from that thought when it came and found she was at her first port of call.

The bell tingled on the bakery door, and she went in, surprised to see Marie, who she was expecting in only a few hours, at her usual station.

“Hello! I’ll need a dozen rolls, for later.� She smiled at the clerk in friendly anticipation of dinner later, only to be breezily answered by a Marie with her head in the bin with the rolls.

“Oh, don’t get any for me. I’m stuck here till two, and then my mum wants me to run her over to Marks and Sparks. Oh, and the Dillinghams were in. They’re visiting their niece today, to do a spot of baby-sitting. Asked me to tell you they couldn’t make it.�

“Oh, well, half a dozen, then. No, eight, in case people want two.� She smiled stiffly through her burning face, attempting to appear unconcerned, “Enjoy shopping with your mum.� She waved lightly, a smile still pasted to her face as she backed out the door, and turned to continue down the street, humiliation warring with shame in her heart. What was I thinking? They don’t consider me a friend. A friend you would at least call. She swallowed over a little lump in her throat. I hope Eleanor is going to be all right with Adele and Marjorie. I don’t think they know each other. Eleanor, who was in her seventies and a little dotty quite probably didn’t run in the same crowd with Adele, who was in her twenties and aggressively hip. Elizabeth had never met Marjorie – hadn’t known she existed until, when inviting the leader of song, she had been asked defensively, “Well, can I bring a date?�

“Of course,� she’d said, immediately, “another person would be lovely. What’s his name?�

“Marjorie,� Adele had shot back, gunning, it seemed, for an argument she did not get.

“Ah, stupid me! Of course, she’s perfectly welcome. Any allergies for you two?�

“We’re vegan,� Adele had shot forth, very slightly less forcefully.

“Eggplant Parmigiana made with soy cheese all right?� she’d countered. It was annoying to have to make another entrée, but you had to feed guests things they could eat.

Adele had seemed taken aback at this ready accommodation. “That would be fine.�

“Two o-clock starters, three o’clock the main course.� She had smiled, and Adele had smiled back in confusion. And what is there to be confused about? I don’t care who she brings, as long as it’s not an ax murderer, and she’s hardly the first vegetarian I’ve met in my life, Elizabeth had thought at the time. Well, a young couple with chips on their shoulders and a dotty woman older than their mothers – it’ll at least be funny in a week or two, she thought, trudging back to her little oatmeal box shaped house, her bunch of flowers wrapped up in a bit of cellophane.

**

Alastor Moody, just in from a night of surveillance and breakfast at Grimmauld place had turned his head to the sound of her gate squeaking open just in time to see her shoulders sag as she crossed from the public walkway into her own space, just beyond the lilac that shielded her from Mrs. Albright’s view.

It seemed reason enough to train his magical eye on her as she walked dispiritedly into the house and tossed the flowers on the table. He looked at the table itself, set for seven with fancy plates he hadn’t known she owned. There was something off.

She sank limply into the chair in her living room, the one he’d slept in, but her shoulders weren’t heaving. She seemed listless.. Makes no sense. Is she having a party? Unhappy about the party? He wasn’t sure when her birthday was. Could her family be due for a visit? Was that why she looked so sad?

Maybe she feels she hasn’t got much to show them. Little they know. There’d have been hell to pay if those fish had died. He did not even think out loud to himself about her kindness to him that night – bringing him into her home, feeding him, never asking a single question. And he might have screamed that night – probably had. He knew he’d woken himself up with it since and kept a Muffliato on his bedroom now, when he slept.

Guesses became fact in his mind, and he formulated a plan of attack. Well, if they’re coming, I’ll go over there. I’ll show them she’s got friends here. Lovely girl! They can’t see the roses, but I’ll tell them. And how well my fish did with her, too. Although they seem to have shrunk back to the size they were. Funny, that. He stomped up the stairs in search of suitable Muggle clothing but kept his eye turned her way.

**

She was almost relieved when the call came, Adele in the foreground, an angry voice in the back.

“I’m afraid something has come up,� Adele was saying. Elizabeth could almost see her wince as, “Not ruining my whole effing Saturday!� came floating out of the background.

“Yes, of course, these things…� Elizabeth was about to say “happen,� but was cut off by the loud, angry voice.

“The nerve of you, saying we could go, like I’ve got the least interest in spending the afternoon with a bunch of…�

Adele coughed, mercifully drowning out whatever the voice, presumably Marjorie, thought they were.

“…happen. They happen. Don’t even think about it. I’ll see you at church. Enjoy your day.�

So it was just her and Eleanor. She started to reset the table. What a waste of money these paper plates Mommy sent are. I can’t tell her I only had one guest to eat off them. I’ll just have to use them on my birthday every year ‘till they’re gone. I shouldn’t be much past fifty by then. Her lip trembled (her whole face trembled), but still she went into the kitchen, put eight potatoes on to boil – she would have extra for the week – and tried not to think about it.

I don’t think I’ll go to church tomorrow – not my usual church, anyway. Maybe I’ll take a drive. A long, long drive. Go see some Museum or some ruins or something else like that. Research. It’s why I’m here teaching obnoxious British children instead of at home teaching obnoxious American children, after all.

No one cared about her theory on staveless runes anyway – no one ever would. It was pointless, like the rest of her life. If she disappeared off the face of the earth, she wouldn’t even notice herself missing. A 23 pound Turkey for herself and a 70 year old woman who weighed all of 80 pounds soaking wet – it was ridiculous.

Several hours later, an hour past the time appointed for starters, she realized Eleanor had entirely forgotten, and her misery boiled over.

“I’ve learned my lesson,� she said aloud, looking up at the corner of her ceiling. “I’ve learned, ok? No holidays, no celebrations, no other people. If I get lonely for Christmas, I’ll go straight to work in a soup kitchen, all right? All right?�

The shaking in her hands extended up her arms, now matter how she fought it, and before she knew it, she had collapsed against the side of her ancient refrigerator, sobbing messily, her rib cage heaving.

Moody, on the other side of the door, saw her crumple to the floor. Respect for her privacy warred with concern for her safety, and concern very swiftly won over. He very quickly and silently spelled the door open and walked in. Setting the cake in his hand on the table, he stomped swiftly to her and leaned over.

“Miss Stewart! Are you all right, Miss Stewart?� he asked aloud. Damn my leg, and damn not being able to use my wand. He reached his hand down to her, and she grabbed it.

“Up you come, now, up you come.� He’d helped up victims of Dark Attacks who’d looked better than this. “Did something happen to your family?�

“What?� she asked, totally confused.

“Here.� He stomped over to the sink, ran some water on a tea towel he saw there, and stomped back with it in his hand.

She buried her face in it, wiping it off and blowing her nose. She held out another hand and he handed her a dry towel, this one from the stove. Finally, she looked up.

“I’m s...� she coughed. “I’m sorry. I’m just a mess today. It’s silly, really. What did you say about my family?�

“I… just…aren’t your family coming in? I-- you seem to be preparing for a crowd.�

“Oh no, they’ll be together, it’s the holiday weekend. I was just going to have a little party here, you know, but well, people are busy. I’m just – it was all women, but…�

That explained why she hadn’t mentioned it. “A ladies party. Well, my mother had those, but?� His rough old voice was lower even than usual, and kindly soft, somehow.

“But no one is coming. They’re all busy with other things, even though they said they would come. I was being selfish. I invited them because I wanted them to come, not because they wanted to be here. What do they care about my holidays anyway? Still, I do think that if they said they would come, they should have – well, some of them did call or send messages.�

He was surprised that a lump rose in his throat. Very old memories – so old that he hadn’t any idea they were there -- surfaced, and a rift of hardness moved across his face, but she was looking out over his shoulder.

“Was the door open? I thought I had locked it. I have to be more careful.�

He cleared his throat. “I’ll have a look at it if you like, after we’ve eaten. That is, if you don’t mind my helping you with that huge goose you’ve got there.�

“Turkey. And I would be eternally grateful.� She led him through the swinging door and into the dining area.

“Nice little decorations,� he said, nodding towards the little favors at each place setting. “Did you spin those?�

The hint of a smile crossed her face. “Not exactly. You make them out of wool, but you use a special thing to poke it with – sort of like a straightened out fishhook. It’s called needle felting. We had chocolate turkeys at home when I was a child, but I couldn’t find them here, so I made those instead.� She sniffed, determined not to cry any more – didn’t she have a guest, after all? – and told him, “Sit wherever you’d like. I’ll get the turkey.�

Watching her neighbor eat was fascinating. When he thought her back was turned, he had sniffed everything. Turning back, she noticed a few small depressions on the turkey breast. Lord, he’s been POKING it with something! She turned her head to hide a smile and noticed similar dents on the yams and carrots. Like a little boy, poking them with a stick! It was only with great difficulty that she restrained her laughter.

**

“I’ll check your window locks, if you don’t mind,� he said as they sat, replete, after the meal. “If the door is being dodgy, it stands to reason they might be weak, too.�

She had relaxed enough to laugh aloud. “Oh, they’re probably all useless, except for keeping the casements from flying open. Those are notoriously easy to break into. I’d be better off getting a nice huge dog except I’d have to feed it and walk it and kennel it whenever I was out of town, and with all that a determined burglar will just throw it some drugged meat and be done with it anyway. We’re a bit isolated down this block, aren’t we? And Mrs. Albright would probably be too busy taking inventory of everything they were getting away with to call the police.� She smiled wryly and picked up her glass.

“Does the isolation worry you?� he asked.

“Yes and no,� she replied thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t mind an alarm, but I can’t afford it. I say my prayers and try not to think about it, mostly.�

She eyed him warily, thought of the dents in the turkey and decided she could tell him. “You can laugh if you want, but nights when I am feeling really nervous, I pile pots and pans and even old cans up in places a burglar could trip over.� She watched him carefully, trying to gauge a reaction, and was surprised to see first shock, then amusement.

“I do rather similar things, myself,� he admitted, ruefully. And they laughed together then, as the dark came early around them on a November night.

**

It was ridiculous. It just wasn’t done. That Give-Thanksing day, that had been an aberration. And charming her window locks so they would only open to her – well that was very low level magic, really; the charm wouldn’t have kept out a wizard, just the local children, mischief makers, if there were any, the odd, pathetic rapist…

He had gone back to sporadically running his eye over the place. He was busy enough with the Order, he didn’t need anything to do, but she was such a nice girl, he liked to just give her house the occasional once over, just to be sure she was safe and had food in the kitchen.

She loaded me down that day. Hasn’t been that much food in the house since Mum died. Good thing I thought to ask Molly Weasley how to keep it.

He’d had to be cagey, too, waiting until there was a small pile of leftovers at the kitchen in Grimmauld place that night – enough for one person, but by no means enough for two. He’d had to work at putting just the right touch of pathos on his face. Molly, not expecting anything, had been easily fooled.

Well, most of them aren’t Aurors. They don’t really know how much chicanery and skullduggery the job takes, and Tonks hasn’t gotten to that level yet. Training and natural ability aside, there are certain jobs you only get with experience. It’s only Shacklebolt, of the bunch of them, who really has an idea. It’s not like I usually play-act for the fun of it.

He could not have recalled anything he did just for the fun of it prior to his retirement, because prior to retirement he had had no fun. Perhaps he had not needed to. He had loved his job. The job had been everything. If they sent him to some foreign mountain range where he had to transfigure his own dinners, he could. If he had to infiltrate foreign governments, he could. Muggles, undoubtedly, were his weak point, but Aurors were, by definition, Dark Wizard catchers. The Muggles must have had their own Dark Muggle catchers and Dark Muggles who, no matter how dangerous or powerful they thought they were, did not tend to last long in close contact with Dark Wizards. No, his Muggle experience was quite old, and quite limited.

“Molly, dear, you haven’t got any particular use for that bit of beef, have you?� he’d asked that evening in Number twelve.

“No, not with Fred and George at school. Lord knows, I think Sirius is quite happy sharing rats with Buckbeak. Take it, go on.�

“The thing is, I’m not on tonight, and I thought I’d get some shut eye before I am on all day Monday. I was wondering…how do I keep it?�

“Keep it? How do you usually keep food, Mad-Eye?� she said, puzzled.

“I normally don’t keep much of a perishable nature in the house. If I need something fresh, I just transfigure it. I do pretty well at skim milk for coffee, not so well at cream…well, cream is no good for you anyway…�

She responded in a businesslike manner, waving her wand flawlessly and magically cleaning up what remained of dinner as she did so. “You use a chilling charm. You want it above freezing, but only just. If you can get hold of one of the old Muggle feridgingrators it makes it easier – they don’t affect the charm, but once you get the food cold it stays better in there…and if you want, you can charm up a nice block of ice and put it next to. Not that I ever needed to know, but since Ginny is gone, and especially with Arthur working all hours and then of course duties here…� Her voice trailed off. Food, it seemed, was not moving at the Burrow’s customary pace.

“Molly, that’s fantastic, thank you!� He didn’t think she’d mind if he poured it on a bit thick – Molly knew men liked her cooking.

She’d given him a piercing look, though, and surprised him by saying, “You should have eaten more at dinner, Mad-Eye. I noticed you were only picking.�

“I’m tired, Molly,� he started, but it seemed he didn’t need to say more. She leaned in conspiratorially and almost whispered.

“We’re all tired, Mad-Eye, but it’s in a good cause. There, there’s the pot roast, all wrapped up. You know how to heat it? You’re sure? And here’s a few rolls, you know. My father always liked a nice crisp roll in the morning with his tea. And Gideon, too.�

She smiled, the hurt old and banked in the back of her eyes, and he thought all of a sudden I wouldn’t want to be the Death Eater that faces her.

No, it might be ridiculous, but they all had bigger things to worry about. If he wanted to make a little lunch for a Muggle neighbor who’d been kind to him, that really ought to be all right. Poor girl had no one else, really, for all the good a family thousands of miles away did on a holiday.

All of this tempest in a teacup – I ought to ask her first, and then she may tell me she’s busy. It ought to have been a comforting thought. It wasn’t, though. He did not admit it and therefore did not have to ask himself why Alastor “Mad-Eye� Moody, scourge of evil for three quarters of a century, should not like the idea of a hapless Muggle needing company on Christmas day.

Catching her so that he could ask her was not simple either. He hadn’t really spied on her personally since he had determined that she was harmless. She’s normally gone by six-forty-seven a.m. and home by four-thirty p.m., but recently I’ve seen her come in later. Five-o-four and forty six seconds yesterday, and no shopping bags to show for it either. Not that he kept track. He had just happened to notice. After all, that clock had been a gift from Arthur, and he tried to appreciate it. He thinks I’m batty, just like the rest of them. Even knowing what we’re facing, they still don’t take it half seriously enough. It’s just that he’s kinder about it. Gave me that Muggle clock because he knows I like to be prompt to rendezvous. Thinks I’m a bit off for worrying about it, but gave me the clock. It was the sort of thing he never really understood, and he managed, now that he was more or less working again, to keep his mind from straying to those thoughts. He had others.

At five fifteen – and he’d been about to pull his Invisibility Cloak on and start down the road to see if she’d had car trouble – she pulled into her driveway, and he carefully sauntered out to meet her.

“Hello! Home a bit late tonight?� he said casually, as if he’d come out here to bin some trash and only noticed her by accident.

“Oh! Hello! Well, they’ve got me running the Christmas Pageant. No one comes to rehearsals, and I doubt the half of them will show for the performance, so it is a losing side, and they are happy to have me on it, I’m afraid,� she responded, smiling tiredly.

“I’ve been hoping to run into you. I was wondering if you’re free to come in for a bite on Christmas Day,� he offered, still casual. “You were kind enough to have me for Give-thanksing…�

She smiled and giggled. “Thanks-giving. And how very kind of you to return the invitation.� They were both ignoring the circumstances of his invitation that day. “Are you sure your other guests won’t mind?�

Damn, I never thought of that. It never occurred to me she might – I mean, it was all right when I was in her house... He decided to rely on the truth, which he had found curiously useful in the past. “There are no other guests coming.� He was quite surprised to find this followed by, “I haven’t really got anyone to invite. My godson has a large family, and I’ve got a few other friends, but one is in mourning and another is busy -- he’ll be at his school…�

“Oh! All the bother of entertaining, just for me?� She seemed both flustered and pleased. “Well, I’d love to, if you – I’d just love to. Thank you very much. What time shall I be there?

“Lunchtime. I don’t know – about twelve?�

“Lovely. I’m going to Midnight Mass, so that will give me a chance to sleep in. Can I bring anything? You brought that lovely cake.� She seemed – excited.

He thought about that later that night, as he pulled his Invisibility Cloak on and Apparated into a village the Order had not sent him to. He checked out the small house several blocks from where he appeared, and finding it apparently unmolested and for what it was worth apparently unused, he quietly Apparated away. No one else checks. There’s a great deal which needs attending to, but no one will listen. No one will listen. Shame. He did what he could in addition to what he was told, but he worried that they were fighting a desperate rear guard action that could only end in disaster. He didn’t believe it, but he worried about it from time to time. He could remember what it had taken to vanquish Grindelwald – and Grindelwald had never…well, who knew, but the ones fighting him had had many, many more wizards on their side than Wizarding Britain seemed to have right now..

He was on his way to his next unofficial, unassigned assignment when a silvery form brushed by him. “Damn!�

****
The note he’d sent over to her mailbox by magic had been answered. Although he’d been concerned at his not having a stamp, hers didn’t have one either. It’s like putting a note on the hedge, then. Muggles must do this all the time. She would be happy to come at eleven instead of twelve. Because I’ve got to be at number twelve in time to take them over to St. Mungo’s. And I want another look at Arthur, myself. Not that Molly doesn’t take marvelous care of him, but if his father was here, he’d do it.

On average it did not bother him that he had no children. When he’d first retired, everything had bothered him, and since Voldemort had returned, he hadn’t had time to be bothered by anything. He thought idly that if he had had a daughter, it would have been nice to have one like Miss Stewart. But no, she’d be my granddaughter, more like. At any rate, she was a lovely girl, and he hoped her father was proud of her. He really ought to be. She was coming early after having been out past midnight. “Ought not to be out like that, things being what they are. Well, I can try a general warning.�

He looked over the table nervously. He’d gotten a little Christmas dinner in Diagon Alley, and they had very conveniently included instructions on heating the food. It turned out his warming spell was a bit stronger than the directions had anticipated, but the mashed potatoes – well, he thought he’d gotten most of them off the wall, and it was only the plain that went. The ones with chives and sour cream were fine. It had all checked out with his wand and dark detectors, so he was reasonably sure it was safe. He heard a knock at the kitchen door, straightened up, stumped over to it, releasing the wards silently, and resetting them just as silently as she stepped through.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Moody! Many happy returns of the day!� She stood there smiling broadly with a bag in each hand and a twig of holly on her lapel.

“And to you, Miss Stewart, and to you!�

There was a moment of silence. Then he pointed over at the table. “I could have put us in the dining room, but it seemed awfully formal for two neighbors who usually meet over dr – cow manure.�

She laughed as he had intended, seemingly not noticing his slip. “It would be, wouldn’t it? This is lovely -- nice and warm with the fire and everything. What would you call it?�

He turned, surprised. “Why, it’s the kitchen, of course. Not all the latest like yours -- I haven’t bothered. Someone is trying to get me to pick up a refringingator, though, I might do that.�

“Oh!� she said, startled. “How…oh how nice! Where will you put it, do you think? It might fit over by the dresser, just to the left,� she recovered. Wondering now how I kept all that food she gave me, or if I just threw out her hard earned money, he thought, only partially correct.

“Let me take your coat. It’s nice and warm here by the fire.�

She took off the coat, a bright purple plaid with very large buttons and no collar, along with a knitted hood and a large shawl she had over it, and her gloves.

She was wearing a soft black sweater and black trousers. She seemed taller than usual, and he realized she must be in high heels, although her feet were covered by her trouser legs, and he noted with interest that the very humble stone hanging from a bit of string around her neck seemed to have runes on it. Catching his interest in the piece, she laughed deprecatingly. “Oh, that is a sort of joke. I painted them on because my dissertation is about them. I just thought the grey stone looked nice against the black sweater. Here, I’ve brought a few things…a bit of dessert, and a quiche, although I can see we don’t need it, and,� she seemed to be a bit unsure of herself, “a little hostess gift for the host.� At his blank stare, she explained. “You know, when you go to someone’s house for dinner, and you bring – dessert, like you did, or flowers, or a bottle of wine.� He seemed confused.

“But you already brought a pudding,� he said, nodding towards the first bag.

She got determinedly breezy and said, gesturing widely, “Well, a hostess present, a Christmas present – it is a holiday, and I thought you might like something to open besides what you friends might have sent you. They sounded like very busy people, or very sad ones. I thought they might not have had time to wrap.�

She casually lay the small parcel on his mantle in the open space where a pot of Floo powder normally stood, and turned, composed once more, staring him straight in the eye and from habit, he murmured Legilimens in his mind, his hand clasping his wand in his pocket.

He quickly corrected himself, but not quite quickly enough. He caught a picture of himself sitting at this table, a cold tin of soup in front of him, eating it with a spoon. It was crowded by images of him trying to heat a can of beans in the fireplace, and huddling under a blanket next to the grate. He saw just enough to realize that she thought he must be destitute, and kicked himself mentally for forgetting to conjure a Muggle stove before she came through the door.

Through long experience he his hid his reaction to this revelation and pulled out a chair for her. “I have to leave about twelve forty five, I’m afraid. My godson is in hospital and I want to go see him.�

He pushed the chair in under her and they sat to the meal, which was magically still warm. He was nervous again about questions she could ask. He really didn’t like memory charms – did them all the time when he was working, but this seemed different, I mean, a guest in my home…it doesn’t seem right to be Obliviating her. If I can trust her to come through the door…

“So, would you like some meat?� he asked, politely.

“I think I’d like a little bit of everything. This is a marvelous meal, Mr. Moody. You have really outdone yourself. They’re not eating this well at home.� She said, “shall I pass you my plate?�

Merlin’s beard, I have to be careful! At the point of levitating that serving dish over here… “Well, let’s have it then.�

The food was quite good. It was nowhere near as good as Molly’s, of course, and he found himself mentioning this aloud. “My godson’s wife is a much better cook than this. Of course, she’s a bit distracted at the moment.�

“Yes, you said he’s sick. I’m so sorry to hear that. Which one is he?� she asked.

“Which one? Which one of who? I’m sure you’ve never met him,� Mad-Eye responded, puzzled. She leaned forward on her elbows – a bit of a relief, because so far her manners had been perfect and he had been feeling more and more nervous about his own, racking his brain to recall every little thing his mother had used to harp on - with a cautious look on her face.

“That day the police came, before you left for your new job. Those folks who were here to see you off.�

This time he gripped his wand under the table and thought Legilimens! without the slightest compunction. He easily saw the scene as he looked in her eyes – she kept replaying the part out by the pond, the part where Barty Crouch had walked up behind him and ground the tip of his wand into Moody’s back. From her point of view, the wand had not been visible. Of course he’d been immobilized, but he could have thrown it off at that point. He had been biding his time, waiting to see who was accosting him and why. He had been ready to fight, until he heard the hissed words. “We’ve got wands trained on the neighbors, Moody, the one in her kitchen, over there, and the one up at her window, staring down at us. I wouldn’t want anything mysterious happening to them, would you?� Normally they would have killed both women first but they had still been lying low, and one of them must have realized that dead bodies on either side of their crime scene might raise suspicions. Still, he had considered the women both hostages at that point. He had thought, though, that nosy Mrs. Albright had been the one at the window, and had pictured her avidly drinking it in and memorizing bits she could recall for her warped little social circle.

He snapped back to the moment. “You saw them. Well, they weren’t friends, as it turned out, those. Especially that scruffy looking one. Please don’t ever go speaking to them if you should happen to see them, or - just let me know and I’ll sort them.�

“Oh.� She took his answer surprisingly well, and now she was fighting, he saw, a flashing series of very frightening images, and then a picture of what looked like him, leaving the place with Arthur.

“The red-haired man who came later, he’s my godson, and he’s a very good person. Don’t class him with those others for a moment. He’s all right,� Moody rushed to assure her. Not that she was likely to meet Arthur – having a Muggle in to lunch, and he still could not believe he had a Muggle in his house, eating at his table, just as if she were a perfectly normal witch – was different from introducing her around to his acquaintances.

“That red-headed man – your godson - seemed to calm the police down. I suppose it was the others with the firecrackers in your trash bins, not neighborhood children.�

“Got it in one.� Before he released the charm on her, he saw that she was forming vague images about his activities – gambling, it looked like, but then clearing into a medical establishment. She was concluding he was in to moneylenders for more than he could pay, seemingly for medical treatment. She didn’t seem to think he was a gambler. Odd that she would think that, because while it was the easiest answer, the first answer that would pop into anyone’s mind, and because she had no particular reason to think anything else, he wasn’t a gambler at all. She was giving him considerable benefit of the doubt.

“Well, I hope you’re avoiding them too, Mr. Moody. And I hope your godson – is it the same godson? - will be ok. It’s not anything serious, I hope.� He released his hold on her mind, and watched her carefully. She put a hand to her forehead, but only for a second, and no suspicion passed over her face.

“Snakebite,� he surprised himself by saying. “Got it in the course of his avocation. Gave us all a terrible scare, but he ought to be fine eventually.� That was all true and sounded perfectly reasonable. She seemed to agree – was shaking her head with a rueful smile.

“Herpetologists. I knew boys back in high school who had a whole snake collection, but most of them were harmless. I wonder what ever happened to them? Maybe I should go to the next reunion. More potatoes would be lovely, yes.�

****

He had managed to convince her that he could easily manage the dishes, which had been a bit of a challenge since they could both see the sink, and it was quite obvious that there was no hot water laid on. Not that she mentioned it. She was the soul of tact. When he had asked her what she would like as a little Christmas gift, she had told him she needed a cable needle. A cable needle, it seemed, was something you used when you knitted sweaters, and could be easily whittled out of a twig.

“It would be so nice to have one whittled from one of the bushes in your yard. Then, when I am an old, old lady knitting in my home in New York, I can tell my great-great-great nieces and nephews about living here now and how you taught me all about roses. But a rosebush twig won’t work. They’re too fragile. I noticed you have a willow, though, and that would be fine.�

She had even drawn him a little picture. “This is the kind I want – points on both ends, and a bit, only a bit, thinner in the middle. They sell them that way, but I am always too cheap to buy them for myself.�

Saving face. She understands saving face. Leaves a man his dignity. He wondered what she had given him and wandered over to the mantle.

It was not unusual for him to get gifts for the holiday. Arthur always had something for him, and surprisingly enough, Snape usually gave him some potion or other. This year’s had arrived by owl, despite that fellow’s busy schedule, and seemed to be a slender flask of rose food. The instructions read to pour it around the base of the bush during the increasing moon. Severus must have heard Molly thanking him for bringing some of his roses for the table at number twelve last summer. Amos Diggory was probably still too grief stricken to do much but mechanically go to work each morning and return home each night. Arthur was in hospital, thankfully alive, thanks to the Potter boy’s sense in alerting Dumbledore to what he’d seen.

The package he lifted off the mantle was soft. The cheap paper tore easily in his gnarled hands, and he found himself eager as a child. Open, it revealed…socks, hand-knitted, thick, warm socks – not one, for the one foot he had, but a pair, like anyone else would get. They were wrapped around an orange, and a walnut, and a small bar of chocolate, reminding him very much of the war against Grindelwald and the little packages like this that his mother, and everyone else’s wife and mother, tried to send through with the communication owls whenever they could. The socks were warm, tightly knit, and when he turned them over he found a little surprise on each sole. On one was a rose and on the other a fish, like the ones from his outdoor pond.

He stared at them blankly. He could not understand how something that had clearly been made with no magic at all could be so magical and was just a little bit later than he had planned arriving at headquarters for Molly and her brood.